


these words are all we have

by voyageur



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Tea, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:01:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voyageur/pseuds/voyageur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(we'll be talking, we'll be talking)</p><p>two lonely boys find each other between heavy snowflakes and drops of tea.</p><p>title from overjoyed - bastille</p>
            </blockquote>





	these words are all we have

**Author's Note:**

> hi so this is my very first fic i'm not quite sure what to say but if you liked it please share it around and give kudos it would mean loads to me
> 
> a little sidebar: thanks to liv aka @louuki on twitter for being a personal cheerleader of sorts and sending me screaming imessages whenever i sent her a sneak peek i love you pal
> 
> i'll stop rambling now anyways thanks and big love - sophie

 

 

> "You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me." - C.S. Lewis

-

it's sad, really, how he's supposed to be spending these few years as the best of his life. he's supposed to be littering his time at uni with alcohol-laden parties and secret rendezvous in the dark. he's supposed to be kissing and touching pretty girls with red lips and bird bones before waking up and doing it all over again. he's supposed to be breezing through his studies and being the poster boy for every teenager's uni dreams.

instead, harry is sat at his worn oak desk and chair every night, that creaks and groans and wobbles when he furiously erases something. harry thinks he and the desk have a lot in common. they both used to be shiny and new, but now they're just battered and mostly forgotten.

really, harry thinks a lot.

he thinks about how he enrolled in uni, when he thought yes, i'll escape this too-quiet village and make loads of new mates and pick up any girl i want. yes, i will live every teenager's fantasies and party long before the sun dips below the crest of the horizon until long past it rises again to greet this side of the world.

harry was wrong.

now, in his second year, he still is stuck in the same routine as the first. wake up, make overly strong tea. go to classes, return to his dorm, sleep. eat pot noodles and watch skins and doctor who and whatever else is on the telly. sit up at his worn wooden desk and press his fingers to his laptop keys and his biro to the papers. it is a dull, endless cycle. and he's tired. drained. broken and beat.

see, it’s not like he didn’t try, though. he genuinely tried the whole parties and sociality thing, but.

harry tried a few parties back in first year with his social butterfly mate niall, and it was all brilliant fun with a constant flow of alcohol and pounding bass and fun. but the girls only wanted quick action in the coat rooms or in the kitchen. and harry realised it wasn't what he wanted. so he shrunk back.

and now, he's going through the motions again, sat at his wooden desk. eat, sleep, work, wish.

-

it's a white blanketed monday morning when administration sends all students and staff an email saying classes are cancelled for the week, as the severe weather systems rolling in "pose a safety risk and transportation is widely unavailable in such extreme conditions".

harry wakes up at 5.03am, reads the email from his dorm room bed, and goes back to sleep.

-

it's 7am on the dot when harry wakes again.

he twists his narrow body to face the window, where he sees nothing but white, save for the odd peek of hunter green from an evergreen. it’s symbolic, really, how monotone it is outside and how monotone harry feels.

with no reason to study or work for at least 7 days, harry finds his rhythm and routine broken. there's gaps everywhere. he can’t handle that. he leans on the constants of his life.

with more effort than what really should be required, harry rubs his face and reaches under his crappy ikea bed for some warm clothing. he pulls on the wooliest jumper and baggiest sweats he can find, in a race against the cold air creating goose pimples all over him. as he stretches down to find some socks in his bottom drawer, harry's cracked phone violently vibrates off his side table.

 _where r u_ , reads the screen. liam.

 _just woke up, fucking freezing in my room, you?_ responds harry.

a few minutes later, once harry has managed to stretch and laze out of his too-small too-cold bed, boil the kettle and make a cup of the strongest tea he can and gingerly nurses the hot china mug, his phone buzzes again.

_ha same dorms suck theyr fuckingg cold!!! might go tooo that tea shop downtown the lil brick one for like a muffin or summat u should come hvnt seen ya in a while_

_you saw me last week, knobhead. do you want to meet at your dorm complex or mine?_

_just met meeee at the shop at like nine k_

harry doesn't respond, knowing liam wouldn't reply.

-

two minutes and six seconds after nine, harry, bundled in a white lambswool scarf from his mum (“so you don’t get ill in this horrible weather”, she had said at christmastime when he had unwrapped the gift), and a black trench coat, trudges his old brown leather shoes through the endless snow drifts landscaping the old streets. it’s nice. he’s always liked this bit of town. it’s not as shiny and pristine and sharp-edged as the rest of big intimidating manchester. this area is softer, more worn-down, and it feels like each and every brick in the old buildings hold thousands of stories and watch him, figuring him out. harry carelessly drags his feet through a small snow drift into the tea shop. he pushes the heavy wooden door open and a tinny little bell jingles. he is greeted with the sound of soft lumineers music. it fits the shop.

the warm, distinctly empty shop.

the place is miniscule, tiny and packed with shelves of tins, a few leather armchairs, a wooden bench along the massive window with stools. it's decorated richly and warmly and it feels exactly like a place someone could call home. miscellaneous photographs of city life and from within the shop litter the walls. and as harry looks around and settles himself in an armchair to wait for liam, his gaze catches on the figure emerging from what must be a back room.

his lungs constrict. this is foreign, this is new. the figure is a boy, and he's beautiful, and harry has never found a boy beautiful before.

now is not the time for thinking into this revelation too deeply.

"hello," says the boy. his voice is gentle and slightly lilted. northern. it suits him. his face glows when he smiles at harry, his eyes going all crinkly and his pointy white teeth show and he shines like the sun.

harry, stunned and as socially unskilled as he is, does not reply for a few long seconds. eventually, he stammers out a meek greeting to the boy, mumbling a shy “hello” back. god, he's wearing a soft cream cable knit jumper about four sizes too big and baggy grey sweats and ragged vans, yet he still looks like a marble sculpture from greece or a lad glossed up in the pages of vogue.

"weather's absolute shit, innit?" the boy says as he reaches for a mug on a shelf near the counter, stretching up on the tips of his toes, elongating his short frame out. harry almost forgets he's isolated with this beautiful stranger and is the one being addressed.

"yeah, well, it's january, so it's just late enough for nature to send us snow yet have a green christmas," harry shakily says, finding his voice. his eyes raptly watch the boy as he tips his face towards the ceiling and erupts in peals of laughter. it wasn't even that funny a comment, but it makes harry feel warm like the shop, like his jumper and scarf and coat.

the boy turns back to face harry, still sat in the armchair. "do you want me to get you anything, love?" he offers, a friendly yet softsoftsoft tone in his vocals, cocking his head slightly to the side and gesturing to the handwritten menu propped against glass domes of treats. harry fires a quick text to liam, urging him to do kindly hurry the fuck up, and contemplates waiting for his friend or getting something. he runs a shaky hand through his hair. bloody hell, he’s still cold, so. "um, yes, any sort of strong black tea with a dash of milk, it's up to you, thanks" harry replies, feeling more stable. the boy answers with another one of those polar glacier melting smiles.

_nah soz m8 got stucck in teh sno w but come overrr for pints tonite!!!_

harry internally curses, except apparently he mutters a hushed fuck underneath his breath right as the boy happens to step over to harry with a steaming mug and a fragile biscuit perched on a plate. the boy smiles again. "i picked you one of my favourite biscuits; this is on me." he’s close enough that harry can see the gentle piling on the boy’s jumper and the loose thread on the tie of his sweats.

harry's mouth forms out a thank you while his heart and brain wishes to blurt out _what is your name you're so gorgeous talk to me make me tea_.

the boy takes the chair opposite harry, curling his legs under him like a small baby deer. "do you mind?" he queries, and harry shakes his head instead of saying _tell me your name and your story you're stunning make me tea and cuddle_.

and -

fuck.

harry can see him and his face properly up close now, how his feathered fringe falls across his forehead, the longest bit catching on his dark eyelashes, which frame his icy oceans of eyes.

harry is falling, falling, and doesn't have anything to hold on to. doesn’t know what to do.

"what's your name?" says the soft spoken boy. well. "'m harry. plain, boring harry styles," harry mumbles, shy around this bright light. he feels like he’s hidden in the shadows. the boy smiles again. "two adjectives? right, then i'm lonely, boring louis tomlinson."

confusion flutters through harry's mind. he doesn’t understand. he can’t truly believe this ethereal boy with a smile so bright it could power all of the uk and the commonwealth be lonely and boring.

"why do you consider yourself to be plain and boring, harry styles?" louis questions harry, as he gets up again and moves towards the counter. harry takes a sip of tea, a light note of metallic bitterness tainting his mouth. he realises he was biting his lip, a nervous habit that only occasionally draws blood.

louis is soft and quiet as he fixes tea for himself. soft, quiet like the glacial world outside. harry breathes. "i was that teenager with the big dreams and aspirations for uni. turns out books and an old desk suit me better than shot glasses and strange beds," he says, talking more to his cup than to louis. harry feels timid and overpowered by louis and his open, bright being. it's not at all uncommon for him to be around people.

louis returns to harry, carrying his hot mug with his sleeves wrapped tight round his hand, making little sweater paws. "doesn't mean you're plain or boring, harry, it just means that the stereotypical social living at uni doesn't suit you," louis reasons. "i find myself to be lonely and boring simply because i know them to be facts. i run a quiet tea shop and take courses online, i crave connection with people, i really do. but, shit, when i do connect with people, they drop me as soon as they possibly can. i've nothing interesting in my life," louis finishes, blowing light ripples across the surface of his tea, the steam flushing his cheeks. he’s just so pretty but broken and harry’s heart is already aching.

harry has no response. he can't even remotely conjure one.

they sit quiet in their space, internally savouring the simple pleasure of tea, music, and company.

the snow keeps falling. falling, falling, falling.

-

later that night, as harry and liam are sat on liam's ratty couch with cold pints in hand, liam asks about harry's morning.

"did you have anything at the tea shop?" liam asks, taking a gulp of his beverage. harry's lips involuntarily lift at the corners. he turns his lanky body so his back rests against the armrest, facing him. "yeah, had a biscuit and a cuppa, was really nice," he says. it’s honest. liam, little bastard who picks up on everything, must notice something different about harry. "and?" he prods. harry sucks in a breath. he’s no clue on how he tells his best mate "yeah, there is a beautiful boy who runs the place and he is everything good in the world but he seems really sad, and i want to know more about him, he is an enigma and i'm fascinated", because he wants to tell liam.

"out with it!" liam cries. for such a quiet boy, he can be quite extroverted around friends.

"alright, alright, christ!" harry raises his hands. "patience is a bloody virtue, li.” harry scratches the back of his next awkwardly, takes another sip of liquid courage. “right, there is a boy who runs the place and he is absolutely breathtaking and intriguing and i sat with him for a half hour and he gave me free tea and biscuits." it's all pushed out of him in a rush, as if harry's mind couldn't hold it any longer.

liam nods, smiles at harry, and takes a swig.

"get him."

in other words, that's liam's blessing.

-

it is 8.09 on tuesday morning when harry wakes with a throat similar to sandpaper and his duvet on the floor.

he groans, slowly lumbering out of bed and repeats the same process as the morning previous. jumper, sweats, socks. tea.

tea.

tea shop.

louis.

 _do you want to come to the tea shop?_ texts harry.

 _nah enjoyyyy urself h ;)_ replies liam.

little shit.

-

 

this time when harry pushes open the creaky shop door, he's still in his cosy clothes and the wind and dense snow is wreaking havoc outside.

he stumbles past the threshold, the door accidentally slamming shut behind him as the wind sucks it back. harry quickly shakes out his unruly, sleep-mussed hair and melting snow falls from its clutches.

louis has his back turned to harry, humming along to an old the fray tune, again in trackies, a jumper, and wool socks. he fumbles with mug he's pulling down as he's clearly startled by harry.

"you like this song?" harry smiles as a way of greeting. he automatically recognises it as an old the fray tune he taught himself on the piano. louis beams like he was filled with fluorescence and sunshine and fireflies. "love the song, love the fray. sang look after you and put it on youtube when i was sixteen and had rubbish hair," louis laughs.

harry hums along to himself, settling down in the same armchair as the previous morning, thinking to himself how it's like he's claimed the chair as his own. he could get used to it.

“what d’you want today, harry?” asks louis, smiling gently at harry as he shrugs off his trench coat. he pauses, looking up at louis. “your choice, i guess,” replies harry. you, his brain says. or maybe it was his heart. louis turns back around , reaching into a tin for a few tea bags and flicking on a kettle with the other hand. from harry’s angle, he can see the slight smile louis is evidently trying hard to bite back with his little vampire teeth.

once the water’s boiled, the tea bags tossed in, the milk splashed, louis carefully walks over to harry with a large mug in each hand, socked feet making no noise on the hardwood, bright pink tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. louis offers one of the mugs to harry, who gratefully smiles up at him and lets the warmth from the beverage seep into his skin.

louis ungracefully plops down into the armchair opposite harry, accidentally spilling a few drops over the rim. he mutters a “shit” underneath his breath as harry throws his head back in laughter. if it were anyone else spilling tea, harry might only offer a shy giggle, but he feels drunk around louis, like his head is lined with static and his heart is cushioned by clouds. it’s only their second encounter, but harry feels himself falling deeper and deeper every passing second. he can’t explain it. he doesn’t understand.

the barricade being thrown up in harry’s mind is that harry’s never thought about boys the way he thinks about louis. he’s not having a freak-out or a crisis or anything of that sort, but it’s still a relatively strange thing to go, hey, he’s a boy and he’s beautiful and i’m drawn to him like the moon draws the tides. they hardly know each other, but harry has this way of reading people the way he reads books. he feels like louis is an intricate book he knows nothing about but wants to absorb with every fibre of his being, carry it close to him, treasure.

harry doesn’t really pay mind to this new development. it isn’t really relevant, as he feels like nothing could stop him from being pulled closer to louis by some sort of invisible, metaphorical thread. harry pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind.

louis uses the hem of his jumper to wipe off his mug, pausing to look up at harry, his heavy laughter bouncing off the wood reduced to small fits of giggles like a schoolgirl’s. louis can’t help but giggle right back at the sight of him, all lanky boy in baggy clothes and wild hair, with red little cheeks and dimples much like the craters of the moon indenting round the sides of his mouth.

if a passerby were to turn their head to observe the tiny tea shop from the outside, they’d simply see two boys glancing at each other over the tops of their mugs, bodies shaking with silent laughter.

-

it’s noon and the snow is coming down in sheets of fluff resembling ripped tissues. the sign on the door of the shop reads “closed”.

harry is still curled up in the armchair while carefully listening to louis open up. he’s on the subject of his family. some story from a few christmases back, at his childhood home.

“- and, like, fiz and lottie were going totally mad, off the walls insane, cos my nan got them bloody justin bieber tickets - he’s not even fit, i don’t know why people throw their bodies at him - and they were running around shrieking and lottie ran into the bloody tree, knocking it over -” louis struggles to breathe, bent over laughing over the edge of the counter, the memory too much to handle. harry chokes on his tea, at the thought of - oh, okay, louis bent over a counter, alright, breathe.

a knock on the window startles them both out of their private world. outside, two boys, one leather and snow layered and the other in a hoodie and glasses, both grinning widely at louis, eyes flicking to harry. harry looks over to louis, confusion flooding his eyes. louis glances at harry before flipping off the boys outside. “my mates zayn and niall,” louis explains, sliding across the floor in his socks, accidentally overshooting it and slamming his narrow body into the frame. harry can hear the boys’ laughter from outside as they move towards the door, waiting for louis to unlock it.

“oi, harry, help me!” cries louis, laughing too hard to properly function. it’s something harry finds he likes the best about louis. he smiles brightly and laughs loudly and has something bold about him. he’s so open, and it makes harry envious. he wishes he could be more like louis around people.

harry softly pads over to louis, silently offering a hand to him, sat on the floor smiling up at harry. his mouth is closed, his fringe is caught on his eyelashes, his legs are curled up awkwardly. he’s so endearing harry can’t help himself around him.

louis’ lips curl back into a grin as he quickly hoists himself off the smooth wood. harry pulls at the same time louis does, causing louis to briefly crash into harry. harry can feel his face warming like bare skin in august sunshine. his nerve endings feel like tiny sparklers little children wave around on guy fawkes night wherever louis touches him.

“thanks, mate,” smirks louis, still holding onto harry’s hand with his own tiny one, leading him back to the door. he stands there, hand in hand with a dazed harry. that drunk feeling is back, like he’s drowning in the feeling of louis next to him, like he’s drowning in the feeling of louis’ skin against his own in their small point of connection.  it’s such a simple action, but it feels like harry is burning up.

louis digs his hand in his left pocket, searching for the little rusty key to unlock the old door. a jubilant “yes!” escapes his mouth when he proudly holds up the piece of metal. harry smiles down at him, before turning his attention to the boys outside, offering a timid smile. they return with big grins and a wink thrown in by the quiffed one. louis pays no attention as he jiggles the key around, finally unlocking the door. louis’ friends surge in like a small wave, shaking large flakes of rapidly melting winter around them.

once their coats and shoes have been kicked off and thrown in a haphazard mountain, they straighten up to louis and harry, hands still entwined. a slow smirk crosses the blonde’s face, the gleam in his eyes visible even behind his large glasses. “i’m niall,” he says, rich irish brogue evident. he warmly smiles, sticking his hand out and shaking harry’s free one before running behind the counter. he can already tell why louis associates with him.

the quiffed one - obviously zayn, then - has a warm, quiet smile that he offers to harry, shaking his hand. he cuffs louis on the head - “oi, you absolute cock!” “you like cock, louis; come on man, get your insults together!” - before running to join niall in an apparent frantic search behind the counter.

louis rubs his head and pouts, turning towards harry. his face almost has a large question mark all over it. harry smiles. “i like them,” he whispers. louis’ face lights up like london at night. “come on,” he says, dragging harry to the counter.

“lou, mate, where the fuck is your rum?”

so that’s what they were scouring for. harry snorts. niall’s irish, that explains it. louis releases harry’s hand, leaving the chilly air to wash over it. “i’m out, you tossers,” he says. a groan similar to when a bunch of schoolchildren are notified of a test simultaneously erupts from both zayn and niall. they slowly saunter out from the narrow space, much more subdued now as louis rolls his eyes. “you menaces finished it off last time,” he says as harry giggles. niall promptly belly flops onto the hardwood, dead centre in the shop. zayn drapes himself over an armchair, pulling out his phone. louis gestures with his head to their own seats, and harry nods. harry drags his feet lazily across the floor, as louis skips and jumps into his chair.

-

zayn and niall stay for a half hour, before winking at harry and ducking their heads as they escape in the near blizzard outside.

-

“why are you always here now, harry?”

louis is sitting cross-legged against the window, a blanket over his lap and a fresh mug of tea in his hands. he flicks his head to get his fringe out of his eyes.

harry puts down his own mug of tea on the table in front of his armchair. he draws his gangly legs up against his chest, resting his chin in the small crook between his knees. he sighs.

“yesterday, i was supposed to meet my uni friend liam here, but he couldn’t make it. i stayed because, actually, i don’t really know. but i like it here. it’s just, i don’t know,” rambles harry. it’s the truth. he can’t put his finger on it and pinpoint why he spent most of yesterday and so far all of today at the shop. it’s something to do with louis, but it’s not like harry can tell the reason himself why he’s there. he’s not that brave.

louis nods, and takes a sip of tea.

-

“look at the snow,” louis smiles, sat on the edge on the counter, swinging his legs. harry sits sideways in his armchair, knees hooked over the edge. he tilts his head backward to look out the window upside down, making his hair hang down in a waterfall. the snow comes down in a steady, heavy stream, whiting out any colour. harry lifts his head back up to louis, whose face is painted with a devious smirk. before harry can open his mouth, louis is running to the back room, quickly returning with a beanie, a jacket and two sets of wool mittens.

“come on, curly. snowball fight.”

harry groans, hiding his face in his hands. “are you serious, louis? a snowball fight? what are we, seven year olds terrorising the neighbourhood?” louis’ face splits in a grin, white teeth blinding. “no, we’re respectable adults who just want to fuck shit up a bit, because there’s nothing better to do.”

harry sighs, slowly and ungracefully getting out of the chair and moving towards his trench and beanie by the door. louis is already halfway through zipping up his downy jacket, his fringe falling over his face as he tilts his head downwards. he looks especially small and fragile and just really fucking cuddly and soft in the jacket which swallows him up. harry almost physically shakes himself from the thoughts, instead reaching for his beanie. he shoves his unruly curls back and quickly tugs the woolen material over his ears. louis bounces on the balls of his feet beside him, all energy and excitement and anticipation. “christ, harry, my hair’s going grey; i do oh-so-kindly ask you to hurry the bloody hell up, kind sir,” his voice high pitched and dripping with sarcasm. harry rolls his eyes as he pops the last few buttons up on his jacket.

“alright, then. world war three, here we go.”

-

they’ve only been outside for about thirty seconds, harry barely having pulled on the fuzzy purple mittens given to him by louis, and there’s a handful of snow down his back.

“step up your game, harry! you’re too slow!”

louis dances around, hopping from foot to foot, his vans and the edges of his jeans soaked from the dense snow blanketing the ground. harry scoops up his own handful of snow, hurling it towards louis’ chest, clearly surprising him. nonetheless, louis quickly dodges it, throwing his head back in laughter. harry can see the snowflakes melting on his golden skin from three feet away. he tilts his head back towards harry, that devious smile back. “show me what you’ve got, styles.”

harry bites his bottom lip, trying to restrain a smile at louis’ enthusiasm and joy. he crouches down to gather up more snow, making eye contact with louis as he does the same. he quickly jumps, vaulting himself towards louis and promptly shoving his paw of snow down louis’ chest, under his endearing navy jacket. harry runs away, tripping over his own feet, yelling jubilantly. louis makes him feel alive. it’s little things like childish snowball fighting that gets him out of the rut. he feels like with a little time and louis around, harry could lose the shell of himself.

an hour later, the boys return to the shop, soaked to the bone, red-face, cold-skinned, happy and free.

they spend two hours curled up together in wool blankets by the radiator, smiling at each other over the rim of their china mugs.

-

wednesday morning, a weather alert goes out for “zero visibility, high winds, 20 - 25cm of snow, highly unusual and dangerous weather”.

harry treks to the tea shop at seven in the morning before the streetlights have even turned off.

-

it’s now nine, and louis has pulled up his macbook in the middle of the shop floor.

harry sits cross-legged beside louis, their heat from each other leaking through the cotton of their sweatpants. it’s a frozen, glacial world outside the wood and glass, but inside this tiny space, it feels hotter than the core of the sun with louis beside harry.

they’ve dragged a few cushions from around the shop to the center of the floor, the shortest table in front of them with half-empty mugs sitting upon the oak. louis had gone running into the back room, returning with a large pile of miscellaneous blankets. harry had pulled out his phone, hastily making a playlist out of his library suitable for this iced day in the shop. with a smile - he’s always smiling at harry, it seems - louis had taken the phone, plugging it into a dock somewhere under the counter, automatically filling the air up with the opening chords of a slow bastille tune.

now, louis shuffles around so he faces harry, but stays closes enough that both their knees are pressed against each other. today, he’s exchanged a jumper for a big cotton man united shirt. he looks cold. harry has this urge to warm him up.

“let’s do, like, a convoluted version of twenty questions. you ask me something, i answer, you answer. then i ask you something, you answer,  i answer.” harry nods, curls falling into his eyes. his vision keeps dropping to louis’ mouth involuntarily when he speaks.

-

they ask each other questions for two hours straight, only pausing to pull blankets around themselves or make more tea.

-

“why do you think we say people fall into love?”

louis surprises harry every once in a while, throwing in a deeper insightful question at harry. harry is flustered and bewildered more often than not, scrambling to find words and thoughts to come up with a satisfactory answer.

harry takes a breath. “i don’t really know, maybe just because, you know, it’s out of our control and sudden or something,” harry says, shrugging.

the opening chords of that the cinematic orchestra song harry loves strain through the air. the wind batters snow against the window. louis takes a sip of tea, looking back towards harry. his eyes are a chilled blue, two dangerous deep pools harry could drown in if he has nothing to float on.

“i think we say people fall into love because it’s like god or fate or whatever pushes you off a cliff, and you try to grab onto rocks jutting out of the face or an eccentric tree branch, but you just can’t. you can’t just decide you’re going to jump. you’re always teetering on the edge blind, and when it’s time, you get a shove in the back and you just fall. but it’s alright, yeah, because when you land, you’re not landing on sharp rocks jutting out of the water, you’re landing in love and that’s probably one of the most beautiful things in the world, i think,” louis breathes.

harry feels like his bones are buzzing and his heart is alight. this beautiful, beautiful boy sat in front of him, so intelligent and thoughtful and open towards harry makes so much sense, has this power over harry that draws him like a plant to the sun in the springtime.

fuck -

harry -

harry wants to kiss him.

he wants to kiss louis so badly, he can feel the ache in his heart and his mouth and his hands.

harry wants to kiss louis.

he chokes out “louis,” at the same moment louis softly runs his coldcoldcold thumb over harry’s cheekbone. that’s the only push he needs to tangle his fingers in the front of louis’ shirt, clench his muscles tight around the soft cotton and pull him closer. his breath hitches when louis’ warmwarmwarm nose presses where his thumb was moments ago, and every feature in his face blurs like an out-of-focus lens.

harry can’t breathe.

louis moves his hands up the side of harry’s face, up along his jaw and into his hair. harry’s mouth softly falls open. he’s still trying to watch louis, but this close, the only thing he can see his louis’ gaze fall south. harry’s lungs constrict in his heavy chest.

“harry,” louis whispers, centimeters away from harry’s mouth. harry can’t take this anymore. he feels like a bonfire in the dead middle of winter. he takes one single shaky breath, and -

he kisses louis.

louis kisses harry back.

the wind howls like a wolf at the pregnant moon.

louis fits his mouth against harry’s, slotting lips like a jigsaw, moving one hand out of harry’s hair and sliding it down to his jaw again. relax, stay with me, the touch conveys.

harry breathes through his nose, tilting his head just that little bit, relaxing his muscles. he unclenches his hands from louis’ shirt, flattening his palms and resting them on louis’ chest.

boomboom boomboom boomboom.

louis’ heart hammers against his ribcage, screaming let me out, yet flutters like a hummingbird.

they breathe each other in, feeling something unsaid.

it’s something that can be left that way.

-

it’s six in the evening and harry is still at the shop.

he can’t get enough of louis now that he’s kissed him.

it’s such a simple thing to anyone, but harry felt a light inside him when louis pressed his mouth to his own. he felt so empty and bored before, with his little wooden desk and his textbooks as company, but since coming to the shop and finding louis, he’s got a new outlook and a new buzz in his veins.

strange what three days with one person does to someone.

now, they’re lying on the floor side by side, reading the weather online.

“fuck, harry,” louis mutters. “it’s supposed to get worse tonight, more snow and hail and shit.” a minute hint of a look of dislike graces his moonbeam skin. his frozen oceanic eyes turn to harry, who shrugs and moves to get up. “where are you going?” louis questions, rolling onto his back as harry stands.

“my dorm,” harry says. “best to get back before it gets worse, yeah?”

louis frowns, a crease divvying up his forehead like the grand canyon. harry cocks his head questioningly. “just - just, like, stay here tonight, with me? it’d be safer,” louis says. he looks so warm and cuddly and inviting, and shit, harry wouldn’t be able to say no, even if he wanted to.

-

the snow creates walls against the glass outside.

the heater is broken in the shop.

louis is behind the counter again. he unplugs harry’s phone from his speaker dock and dives back into the mountain of blankets and cushions and harry, piled up in the middle of the shop floor.

“get off me, you shit!” screams harry, trapped between layers of cotton and louis. louis, who laughs loudly, pulling back a little, allowing harry to roll over onto his back. his face is red and his hair is as wild as a young fox stretching his legs at full speed.

in a split second, louis moves to sit over harry’s hips, planting his hands flat against the subtle bumps of harry’s abs. every sense, every nerve, every fibre in harry is heightened, his brain moving faster than a taxi in london’s streets. his thoughts are a cycle of louislouislouis bum hips cock louis face boyboyboy hair beautiful louis louislouislouis.

a cocky smirk graces louis’ pink rosebud mouth as he leans lower to harry, space between their chests and faces decreasing. harry feels a searing flush spread down from high on his cheeks to his pale, creamy neck. “you alright there, curly boy?” it’s impossible for harry to handle louis like this, all teasing and inviting and just there.

and so harry reaches up with one hand, wrapping it around the back of louis’ neck, and pulls him down to mere inches away from his own face.

“something you want, harry?” louis says. his eyes have transformed from frigid oceans to narrow currents of cerulean surrounding dark abysses, his pupils slightly enlarged. from this close, harry can see the occasional freckle marring his golden skin, the dark feathery eyelashes, the scruffy long hair hiding his forehead.

he’s the most breathtaking thing harry’s ever laid eyes on.

“kiss me,” harry whispers, tilting his chin a fraction upwards, inviting louis’ mouth. after few seconds, louis presses his mouth to harry’s, his fringe tickling his face and his nose pressed gently against his cheek. a soft noise involuntarily rises from harry’s throat as he reaches to push his fingers into louis’ soft hair. louis responds by widening his mouth slight, running his tongue over the already swelling line of harry’s lip.

they break apart softly, only centimeters apart, their mouths brushing as they take shallow breaths.

“god harry,” louis whispers brokenly, his voice sandpaper. “you’re - shit, you’re so fucking hot.”

louis quickly moves his mouth back over harry’s, eagerly pushing his tongue into harry’s. harry is overwhelmed, his mind on fire, his mouth like fireworks during new years in new york city. louis moves his hands from harry’s chest to his hips, clutching onto the narrow expanse of skin. wherever louis touches harry, he feels a burn. louis is the sun, and he is a cube of ice.

a gentle moan leaks from louis as he runs his hands under harry’s clothes, his fingers trailing up his ribcage, reading his skin like braille. harry responds by dragging his own hands down the side of louis’ face, moving them, moving them, until they come down to rest on louis’ chest.

with apparent effort, louis moves back to sit on harry’s hips again. harry’s hands fall to settle on louis’ gorgeously thick thighs. louis takes a few shaky breaths, coming out in short pants. his face is blushed like a bruised rose, effortlessly wrecked and stunning.

“harry, curly, have - have you ever done anything? like, with another boy? don’t let me fly blindfolded, love,” louis says, biting his lip. harry sighs. “no, but like, i’ve thought about boys for a bit, yeah? and, you, you’re just - fuck, louis -” louis shuts him up with his mouth, tugging at the fraying hem of his top. “off,” he grumbles, harry stretching his arms to let him to pull off the thin material. the cold air sends goose pimples up and down his long, lean torso, the pale skin making harry look ethereal in contrast with his deep coffee hair.

he’s beautiful. louis is insatiable. louis absolutely can’t get enough of him.

“louis,” harry whines, so clearly wanting. “take yours off, too, please,” he says running his fingers down louis’ thighs. louis complies, quickly pulling it over his hair and carelessly dropping it onto the floor beside him. harry reaches back up for louis’ hair at the same moment louis leans back down to run his palms over harry’s soft abs. it’s electric; the feeling running between the two of them, the space between them vibrating like a live wire.

their mouths move back together, two magnets that can’t bear to spend time apart. it’s a blurred mess of tongue and teeth and heat and want. before long, harry reaches down to hold his hands over the small of louis’ back, creeping closer to the swell of his bum with a shot of nerves along with a confident desire for more.

“harry, harry, let me -” louis fumbles his fingers with the drawtie of harry’s trackies, trying to rid of the soft cotton as soon as he possibly can. harry stretches his head backwards, allowing his pale neck to stretch out. louis can’t take it. he finally undoes the bow of the tie as takes a mouth to softly nip at the smooth column of harry’s neck. “please”, harry whispers, stretching out even more to allow louis to mar his skin. it’s an unabashed invitation; touch me kiss me mark me i’m yours if you want me to be.

inhaling through his nose, louis bites down firmly before sucking hard in the same spot. a whine escapes from high in harry’s throat as his hips unconsciously rise up against louis’ bum. the hard line of his cock distracts louis for a mere split second.

once the hint of a red wine blemishing bruise interrupts the creamy line of harry’s neck, louis moves his mouth against the soft shell of harry’s ear. “let me suck you off,” louis says throatily. “yeah, please, yes,” harry cries, so desperate and so wanting because louislouislouis.

few seconds later, louis is looking up at harry from underneath those glorious eyelashes and heavy fringe as he bobs his head, enveloping harry’s aching cock in heady warmth. harry clutches the blankets surrounding him, arching his back and making obscene moans above him. “louis, lou, shit, i can’t, i’m gonna come soon if you don’t let up,” harry babbles, too turned on to properly communicate. louis simply sucks harry down further, his jaw burning and his throat resisting. with a weak cry, harry comes hotly down louis’ throat, muscles tensing to tight rope taughtness.

louis pulls his mouth off harry’s cock, licking his lips and softly moaning lowly at the sight of the absolutely demolished harry beneath him. tightly coiled and desperate to come himself, he begins rutting his terribly hard cock against harry’s pale thigh. harry quickly catches on, raising his knee a few degrees, easing the grinding for louis.

“lou, come on, come for me,” harry says, desperately wanting to see louis lose it. “you’re beautiful, louis, so gorgeous, especially like this.” harry’s trashed, deep voice is that necessary push that has louis throwing his head back in bliss as harry feels the heat of him coming through his boxers, through his trackies and against his skin.

-

at eight, the question of food arises.

louis and harry had cleaned themselves up, all the while giggling like schoolgirls and blushing like roses. (the blushing was done mostly on the timid harry’s part.)

relaxed side by side on their blanket and pillow mess, louis turns his face towards harry. “food?” is all he says. harry nods, letting louis pull him up by the hand. “i think i’ve got a few packets of pot noodles in the back room, maybe some chocolate hobnobs too,” louis says.

“what even is going on in that back room, anyways?”

louis gently tugs on harry’s hand and entwines their fingers tightly. the smile harry offers louis feels secretive, like something special and private shared only between the two. “come on, don’t be scared,” louis says, a laugh twitching up the corners of his reddened lips.

louis impatiently drags harry being him, all nimble feet and bubbling sincerity and happiness while harry shuffles across the floor like a stubborn child. “is this where you hide the bodies of those you’ve brutally murdered, or is it your secret weed room?” harry chuckles, as louis flips on a switch just inside the back room’s doorway.

the yellowing light reveals a room no bigger than a walk-in closet, full of miscellaneous boxes of tea, stacks of blankets, random mugs and a few winter clothes. sure enough, a stack of tesco pot noodles are sat piled next to a packet of hobnobs. louis, stretching his muscled arm to reach for the foods with his free hand, lets out an ecstatic cry of joy. he uses his nose to flick the light switch off. “clever,” harry smiles.

louis pulls harry back out to the counter. louis releases harry’s grip, leaning his weight against the oak. “should we eat them straight out of the packet, or actually follow the instructions and boil some water?” louis tilts his head. the subtle action reminds harry of the very first time he’d ever been to the tea shop, when louis had asked what he’d like to drink and eat. harry smiles, and louis pokes his pinky in his left dimple, feeling it deepen underneath his touch. harry speaks around the pressure from louis’ digit. “let’s just break them up and eat them dry, yeah?” feeling bold, he adds “cos i want to do something i haven’t in a while. there’s someone you’d like i want to talk to.”

-

there’s a porcelain bowl on the floor filled with raw pot noodles next to louis’ macbook. louis hungrily watches harry’s long fingers tap as he logs into his skype. he’s distracted, his eyes roving back up his strong arms, up to his neck. louis shivers, gaze lingering on the purpling bruise left by his own mouth. it looks out of place on the cream of harry’s skin, but it makes louis’ brain short-circuit as he thinks mine.

harry suddenly turns to look at louis. he’s surprised by the gentle warmth and affection written like a poem over louis’ features. he’s never seen anyone direct a look like that to himself. it’s too overwhelming, and his looks away to the screen where the camera has switched on. he taps on an ‘available’ icon, and the window begins to buffer.

louis twitches and fidgets beside harry. “who exactly are we talking to, by the way?” harry smiles, wrapping his arm around the gentle curvature of louis’ waist. his presses his face into louis’ fluffed up hair, smiling softly against his scalp. “it’s just my older sister, gemma. i promise you’ll like her,” harry whispers. a little tiny bleep comes out of the tinny speaker grill.

a bright, familiar face fills the screen just as harry pulls his face away from louis’ warmth. “gem!” he cries, as she smiles widely much like harry’s own. louis already likes her, a clear similarity between the boy pressed against his side and the girl however many miles away london is shown in pixels. she’s clearly older than harry is, more mature in her features and her self-carriage.

“now, my dear little young baby-faced harold -” “gemma, shut the fuck up!” “- who is that lovely lad beside you?”

harry smiles down at louis, whose chin tips up and eyes crinkle as his offers a soft smile to harry. they simultaneously turn back to the tiny camera. “this is louis,” harry ventures, not tying any label of further description to louis’ name.

“may i ask what you are to harry, louis?” gemma queries, schooling away a criticising look. it’s the same question harry’s been mentally asking himself since louis’ mouth connected to his. he sucks a deep breath into his lungs. that falling feeling is back.

louis presses his face against the junction of harry’s neck and shoulder, cheek against tendon, lips against skin. his face is a ruby red like wine, matching the blemish on harry’s neck. “boyfriend,” he whispers softly, afraid to disrupt the silence and afraid of scaring harry away. “if you’ll have me,” he tacks on. harry turns, bracketing louis in both of his arms and whispering right against the shell of his ear. “boyfriend,” he agrees.

they forget gemma’s watching.

(she smiles, full of sunshine.)

-

after a continuing conversation of another half hour mostly consisting of harry in a daze (he's officially bi and has a bloody boyfriend, don't blame him for being a little out of it) while louis banters with gemma over bands and football ("don't get me wrong, the script and the fray are both absolutely brilliant, but the killers trump them any day," shouts gemma, and louis shouts back "oh for god's sake, those are my top three, but the fray is impeccable, gem!"), they shut the lid and harry boldly pushes louis back against the fleece and flannel and cotton of their blanket pile.

“ _boyfriend_ ,” louis singsongs as harry smoothes his mouth and tongue down louis’ chest, fingers divoting his thighs as he holds tight, as if louis might float away if he's not careful.

the snow falls fast in time with their shallow breathing, and the walls protect them against the siege of the storm.

-

it is two in the morning, and louis and harry are locked in the tea shop by the torrents of snow.

they press themselves tightly together to keep each other warm underneath the everest of blankets.

harry whispers delicate words against louis' skin, which absorbs every vowel and consonant and emotion behind them.

"i wish i was a poet, an artist, or a musician, so i could do you justice in words or paints or notes, because i can't explain it normally. normal words aren't strong enough for you," harry says.

-

in the morning, harry wakes with a crick in his neck and a warm solid weight against his chest, his hand is pushed through louis’ fringe and his arm is wrapped securely around louis’ bare back. louis has his fists stacked on harry’s collarbone, warming the blue swallows imprinted there. the fragile boy snuffles softly in his sleep. it’s terribly endearing.

harry starts humming underneath his breath, running an open palm up and down up and down the golden line of louis’ back underneath a quilt in an effort to wake him. he doesn’t really have the heart to just leave him there to wake up cold and alone in the frozen shop while harry takes a piss and steeps some tea. the small noises of louis breathing in sleep halt, showing the first signs of him arising. he burrows his face against harry, leaching any warmth he can. the cold ends of his fingertips absentmindedly trace swirls and curlicues over harry's body, leaving small goose pimples in their wakes. harry's every sense is heightened in acute awareness, like a hunting dog when the hay bales are lifted. his heart is invaded by louis' oceanic eyes, his mind invaded by his baby smooth skin, his chest invaded by his velvet soft mouth.

with a muffled "mmphmmff", louis curls himself even tighter around harry, who gently laughs. "lou, love, come on, wake up proper," he breathes. moments later, at the absorption of harry's milky voice, louis' eyes open wide directly at harry, blazing a vivid cerulean as he blinks the sleep away. it stuns harry, winds him with how intrinsically gorgeous louis is. he feels like he holds a great secret at being able to have louis like this, all boy and winter and effortless, graceful beauty.

harry is unable to do anything but fit their mouths together like a jigsaw, licking the taste of long ago tea and noodles and chocolate biscuit out of the creases of his mouth. louis sighs, prying their mouths away until they're just brushing gently, eyelashes fluttering and noses pressing.

"there's a hole in my soul," harry sings in a whisper. his voice is rough with sleep and low with grit.

"can you fill it?" louis whisper sings back.

-

breakfast consists of fresh muffins and bitter black tea only accomplished after a flour fight obviously commenced by louis.

(he had been helping harry with the raspberry lemon muffins his mum always made for him and his sister at home when he flicked his wrist and sent a cup of flour flying directly against the back of harry's jumper. harry quickly retaliated with flour to louis' hair. it continued until they were patchwork with it.)

while the muffins were baking and louis was carefully brewing tea, harry fished his phone out of his coat pocket.

 _i have a boyfriend_ , he sent to liam.

 _im proud of youuu_ , liam replied.

now, in this moment, in this minute, in this second, louis sits in harry's lap in an armchair, both of them sinking into the leather and each other. louis rolls his head back, blinking up at harry. his fringe is caught on his eyelashes again.

"do you feel lonely and boring and plain like your desk still, harry?"

harry smiles, sleep-softened curls falling over his forehead.

"no, louis, i don't."

louis bites down on his lip, moonbeams shining out from within him.

"do you still feel lonely, louis?"

"not when you're around."

and so it goes.

-

_oh i hear you calling in the dead of night (oh, oh, oh)_

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this fic! please share, comment, and give kudos, it would mean loads to me
> 
> love, sophie


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